The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,33
have been waiting.”
“Again, my apologies, but I had little say in the matter. When I came out the door, I found men waiting for me.”
“Who?” she asked with a frown. “The only house above the village belongs to Captain St. Claire. Is he ill?”
“It wasn’t the captain, at least, I don’t think he was involved.” He angled his head to look at her arm. No sign of blood, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t broken a stitch.
“Come inside,” he said. “I’ll explain.”
Her mouth worked, and, for a moment, he thought she would refuse. Then she nodded. As he dug out the key, she tugged some parchment from her sleeve.
“Your case notes,” she announced. She thrust them at him before sailing past, nose in the air.
He offered her a bow that did little to thaw her annoyance. The light from the south-facing windows brightened the space sufficiently that he could cross to one of the examining rooms, leave the battered case notes, and return with a fresh bandage.
She sighed at the sight of it. “I’m fine, Linus. This isn’t necessary.”
“I will examine you at your flat, with your mother present,” he assured her, tucking it into his depleted bag, “but I’d rather have this conversation here, where I don’t have to frighten Ethan.”
Immediately she was all attention. “What happened?”
“I was kidnapped,” he said, and her eyes widened. “Two men, by the number of hands on my person, though neither spoke. They covered my head with a sack, bound my hands behind me, and marched me to a waiting wagon. What time is it?”
She blinked at the non sequitur, then glanced at the bronze wall clock. “Nearly half past six.”
“Then I’ve been gone more than an hour,” he realized. “I estimate they drove me for about a quarter hour each way, and it took me another half hour to tend to the patient.”
She seized on the word. “A patient? Someone was ill?”
“Injured,” he corrected her, thinking back. “Gunshot wound to the thigh. My captors pulled me out of the wagon and led me into the inner room of a house, then took off the sack. The place smelled of dust and decay. There was a man sitting on a crudely constructed wooden chair. The walls were plaster, no paper. The floors hadn’t been swept for some time.”
Once more she stared at him. “What has that to do with anything? You were kidnapped!”
“And I’d very much like to know by whom,” he assured her. “The more I remember about the circumstances, the better our chances of locating the place again.”
She drew in a breath and nodded. “You’re right. Sorry. Go on. What else do you remember?”
“There was nothing else in the room except a washbasin with water. Plain white. Porcelain.”
“Common, then,” she agreed. “In fact, it very much sounds like a tenant farmer’s house.”
“Possibly, but they weren’t farmers. The two who had captured me backed from the room before I could catch a glimpse of them. The injured fellow had a cap that covered most of his hair. Dark brown eyes, the beginnings of a mustache and beard, brown or black. He refused to speak to me.”
“None of this makes sense,” she protested. “You heard the militia the other day. Most of the people in the area don’t even own a gun. How could this fellow have been shot?”
“Perhaps because he attempted to steal food and clothing from a real farmer.”
She gasped. “The French agents!”
“Exactly,” Linus agreed. “By refusing to speak, they hid even their voices from me. But they wanted me to know who they represented. It was almost as if they were taunting me. You see, they’d draped a French flag over the back of the chair.”
She shook her head. “The villains! But why did they let you see one of them and live?”
He’d been afraid they wouldn’t. But he wasn’t about to tell her that, or the fact that his first emotion on considering the matter had been regret that he wouldn’t see her again.
“Because they may still need me,” he said. “I fear the wound is grievous, much more serious than yours. He was feverish when I arrived. They’d already attempted to dig out the ball. I finished the job and bound him up, but I won’t be surprised if he needs more treatment.”
Like a teakettle, she’d built up enough steam to sound off again. “They cannot go around kidnapping people at will. We will protect you. We’ll go to the magistrate.”
“Who is out of town,” he reminded her.